


through the heart and invisible to the eye

by HuiLian



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: A LOT OF COMIC BOOK SCIENCE, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comic Book Science, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Torture, References to canon character deaths, both emotional and physical i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28243239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HuiLian/pseuds/HuiLian
Summary: Can your feelings be used to torture someone?When Tim, Dick, and Jason get brought together for a case, they encounter a new and interesting method of torture.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Tim Drake
Comments: 20
Kudos: 168
Collections: BatFam Winter Gift Exchange 2020





	through the heart and invisible to the eye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fanfictiongreenirises](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictiongreenirises/gifts).



> hi iris!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! you asked for this:  
>  _Fav character: Dick Grayson  
>  Three Favorite relationships: Dick & Bruce (platonic), Dick & Tim (platonic), Dick & Jason (platonic)  
> What are three things you love to see? Hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, misunderstandings _
> 
> I cannot seem to manage to squeeze in Dick & Bruce, but here's some Dick & Tim and Dick & Jason bonding (if that is what this is) for you! And of course, you can't dangle h/c and angst in front of us, because we _will_ take it and run with it. 
> 
> this is spiritually, that is, i thought about it when I was brainstorming for ideas, inspired by your [ Modus Tollens ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22798288) fic, which I love. It has NO resemblance whatsoever with your fic, except in that we both make dick suffer. 
> 
> Enjoy! and I hope you like it!

Dick looks at Tim and frowns. “What are you doing here?” 

“I have a case,” Tim answers. 

“ _Here?_ ”

“Yeah,” Tim tilts his head. “Why? Do you have one too?”

Dick nods, already mentally going through his plan for tonight and altering things to fit Tim in. He knows that Tim is doing the same, whatever his plan for the night is. 

“Okay,” he says, putting his escrima stick back in the holster on his back. “We’ll do maneuver C12, if that’s okay with you?” Tim nods, so Dick continues. “My intel says there are several devices with unknown properties inside, so watch out for that.”

“Watch out for what?”

Escrima sticks back in his hands, Dick turns to face the source of the new voice. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Tim also straightening his bo staff. The two of them aim their weapons at the voice, only to find that it is Jason standing there, arms raised lazily above his head. 

“Wait, _you’re_ here too?” Dick says. 

“I can’t be here?” Jason asks grouchily. 

“No, no, of course you can,” Dick answers. His relationship with Jason is not the best, might _never_ be what it was before, but the days of the Red Hood actively fighting against them are long gone. He’s sure his little brother knows that too and is riling him up deliberately, so Dick lets out a long breath and says, “It’s just… the two of us have a case here as well.” 

“Together or individually?” Jason asks, every inch professional all of the sudden. Dick knows why he’s doing that: a case that is being pursued by three vigilantes, _separately_ , is never good news. Especially not in Gotham. 

“Individually,” Tim answers, face pinched in thought. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” 

“Are you thinking that this is going to be a shitshow?” Jason replies. 

“Well, I’m thinking that these people went through _a lot_ of effort to bring us here, but yeah, sure, that too.” 

“Where’s Batman and Robin tonight?” Dick asks. If these people managed to get the three of them to pursue this case, individually, they have most likely also put trails out for Batman to find. 

“Pursuing a different case in Star City,” Tim answers. “But now that I think of it, I saw this address in one of B’s files.” 

“Black Bat is on a mission with O,” Dick frowns, pieces starting to come together in his mind, “and-. Do you know where Batgirl is?” he asks, turning to Tim. 

“I don’t know for sure, but I think Batgirl is teaming up with Supergirl.” 

“So, it’s the three of us in Gotham tonight,” Jason says slowly, also coming to the same conclusion as Dick, “and all three of us are here.” 

“Yes.”

“Well, _shit_.” 

Dick couldn’t have said it better. These people put in a _lot_ of effort into bringing the entirety of Gotham’s vigilantes here, there must be something afoot. Dick tilts his head, agreeing with what Jason said, and says, “What’s your case about, Hood?” 

“Experimentation.” 

“And yours, Red?” 

“Blackmail.” 

Dick gives a low whistle. The intel that caught his eye for this case details excessive radiation levels and power usage, which should be in line with Jason’s. But something tells him that the experimentation he meant is something else. This is going from bad to worse quickly. If all three of them have different intels, then that means there are eight possibilities. All of them could be right, and inside there is a mess of a combination of three different situations; one of them could be right and the other two are decoys, but that’s even worse, because they don’t know which one is the right situation; two of them could be right, but they still don’t know which one is the decoy; or, the worst of all, none of them are right and what is inside is something else entirely. 

“Well, like I said to Red Robin, mine is about devices with unknown properties.” Dick stops there to look at his little brothers. “This case is getting worse and worse. Do you want to regroup, exchange info, and come back another day?” 

“Hell no,” Jason says. “There are kids in there, and who knows where they’ll be if we don’t find them now.” 

“There might _not_ be kids there, Hood.”

“But there could be, and I’m not risking it.”

Dick breathes out slowly. This is _not_ ideal, at all, but Jason is also right. They might not find them again if they leave now. Also, if there is even a chance of hostages inside, being experimented upon, then saving them just became their top priority. 

“Red?” Dick asks. This is new. Asking Tim to join in is new, because before, well, _everything_ , Tim used to tell Dick about his cases. Or, well, the cases that they’re working together on, anyway. This… this asking, the two of them keeping information from one another, this is new. 

Just another reminder of how much Dick fucked up. 

“Is your intel good?” Tim asks, after levelling a long, considering look at Jason. 

“Who do you think I am? Of course, it’s good.” 

Tim stares at Jason again for a while, before turning to Dick and nodding. “I agree with Hood, then.” 

“Alright,” Dick says, feeling himself take charge of the mission. He… It’s not really what he wants to do, not with his recovering relationship with Tim and his fraught one with Jason still on the line, but no one else stepped up and Dick is used to filling the void when he needs to. “Exchange intel. Hood, you go.” 

***

It _is_ a shitshow, even with all of their intel pooled together. None of them have the same intel; hell, none of them even have the same _blueprint_ for the building. They are forced to split up after just minutes from entering the building. 

There are two different pathways, both of them leading to rooms full of people, if their infrared is to be believed. However, Dick is starting to think that nothing here can be trusted, not even their own tech. He doesn’t like it one bit, but they have to split up, because the victims could be in either one of the rooms, and saving them is their top priority right now. 

Dick signals to Tim and Jason that they should take one of the pathways, leaving Dick to take the other one alone. It’s not ideal, _nothing_ in this is ideal, but it’s better than having one of his little brothers do it. 

He walks down the hall, getting more and more suspicious with every step. The hallway is longer than the infrared showed it to be, and, even though Dick could swear he heard movement somewhere behind him, when he turns his camera-lens towards it, there is no sign of any disturbances. He keeps one hand on his escrima stick and walks on, knowing that it is too late to turn back now. 

Ten steps later, he feels a gun trained to the back of his head. 

“Run, and I shoot,” a voice calls out from behind him. 

Dick sucks in a breath, and replies, “What do you want?” His head is already churning, trying to calculate where Tim and Jason would be, whether or not this person knows about them, and the best way to get himself, and his brothers, out of this situation. 

“For you to come with me,” the same voice says. 

“And why should I do that?”

“Because if you don’t,” the dark hallway suddenly erupts in light, showing footage of Red Hood and Red Robin in a similar dark hallway as the one Dick is in, “we’re going to take one of them.”

Well, _that_ answers one question. Dick raises his hands slowly, not wanting the person behind him to shoot, or worse, shoot one of his brothers. Someone, not the person holding the gun, because that is still trained on his head, grabs his hands and ties them together. 

Dick breathes out slowly, and lets them march him further into the darkness. 

***

Tim really, _really_ should have grilled Jason more about his info. Maybe then they wouldn’t be in this situation. 

They separated early on, with Nightwing choosing to take the other hallway alone. Tim feels himself gritting his teeth, because he should have asked to come with Dick instead of accepting his orders to go with Jason. Because now he is locked up in a room, with a strange helmet locked onto his head, and no idea of where either Jason _or_ Dick are. 

It’s Dick’s info that’s right then. Devices of unknown properties. But that still left a whole plethora of options to choose from. 

That makes him angry. He doesn’t think much about it, at first. Of course he’s angry, his case was interrupted and now he’s locked in a room, fitted with a contraption whose functions and abilities are completely unknown to him. 

He’s angry that the plan failed spectacularly. He’s angry that he has no idea where Dick or Jason are. He’s angry that Dick decided to go on through with the plan, even knowing that there are inconsistencies upon inconsistencies. 

These are reasonable things to be angry about, and he stews in it. There is nothing else to do in this room. The people that put him in here didn’t even tell him anything; they just lumped him in here, forced the helmet on him, and locked the door. 

He’s angry that Dick had deceived him about going to Spyral, which made him unwilling to share this case details with him earlier. He’s angry that Dick made Damian Robin, because it meant that Damian is the one with Bruce right now and not trapped in this room. He’s angry that Dick didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him about Bruce. 

_CRASH!_

Tim stares at the wall. Why is he in front of it? Wasn’t he in the middle of a room a few seconds ago?

He gets his answer some moments later, when his brain finally registers the pain in his hand. Did he…. Did he just punch a wall?

Tim looks down at his hand, still absolutely perplexed. Why would he punch a wall? There’s no reason for it, except…

Tim swallows. Except for him getting angrier and angrier at Dick. Over things that have happened long ago. But then, it wasn’t too long ago that Dick lied to him. To all of them. It wasn’t so long ago that Dick used him like another tool in his gauntlet. It wasn’t so long ago that Dick _sacked_ him, replaced him with someone who had tried to _kill_ him. 

No! Why are his thoughts going down that road again?! He’s in the middle of a case, in the middle of a _situation_ , and he has to stay calm. He has to keep his head clear. 

Tim forces himself to breathe slowly and deeply, utilizing one of many meditation exercises he’s good at. Bruce has many of them, but Tim could only ever master a handful. No wonder Dick didn’t believe him. He was right, when Tim went to find him in Haly’s Circus, years and years ago. Tim isn’t made for this. Everything that Dick did so effortlessly he had to _work_ for. He’s not meant to be Robin.

No wonder Dick replaced him. No wonder Dick chose a newer model. 

All the times Dick listened to him babble on about his problems, did he ever think about how _pathetic_ Tim was? How pathetic he still is? All the times Dick took Tim with him to his cases, did he ever think about how he would have done better without Tim? Did Dick choose to leave him with Jason because he didn’t want to have to do another case with Tim?

No. He’s getting distracted again.

Tim stops pacing, something he didn’t even realize he’s doing. Enough wallowing. He’s in the middle of a situation, and he needs to find a way to get _out_ , and _soon_. 

He takes a deep breath, _again_ , and tries to think of possible ways out of this situation. He has some gear with him, but most of it was in his belt and that has been taken by the people who put him here. There’s the extra lockpicking kits, which he had tried on the helmet and the door earlier, but both of them are fastened on with weird contraptions that would take him a lot of time to crack. Plan C, then, to be kept in mind

He still has his mask, but nothing in it worked, except for the clear glass lenses. It might be the helmet that’s messing with his tech since the same problem applies to his comms. 

He wears his undersuit, the basic survival layer intact, but that doesn’t do much to help. 

There’s a voice inside him that says that he could just call out for Kon and he would be here, but another voice inside him tells him that the last thing he wants is for Kon to also get involved in this situation. Kon… who has died once before, by answering a call for help by one of the Bats. 

From Dick. 

The grief Tim thought he had left behind assaults him again. He remembers the year that he passed in a haze, working with Cassie to bring Kon back. He remembers sitting in front of a Lazarus Pit, with a test tube of Kon’s DNA in his hand. 

He remembers that Dick was there, both when Kon died in his fight with Superboy-Prime, and with Tim, in front of the Lazarus Pit. The thought of Dick brings him back to the grief he felt when he heard that Dick was dead. The amount of grief that pools inside his chest blindsides him, because in the time after Dick’s return, he was so busy being angry at Dick that he forgot the grief.

God, how could he have forgotten the grief? It’s all-encompassing, swallowing his every thought. 

Tim blinks, surprised to find that his cheeks are wet. But what’s more surprising is the pure silence in the room. He didn’t even notice the humming that filled the air until the room no longer vibrates with it. 

That’s not good. 

Tim stretches his mind back, trying to remember when the humming started. If he didn’t even realize its existence until it stopped, then the most logical conclusion is that the humming has been there all along. 

The helmet. The humming has been there ever since they put the helmet on his head. 

Tim pulls out his lock-picking kit, cursing himself because he should have noticed this, he should have anticipated this. This is a beginner’s mistake, and he has been a vigilante for _years_ now. He should be better than this. 

No one in Gotham puts a helmet on someone if that helmet isn’t rigged with something. 

He reviews what has happened to him in the time he’s been in the helmet. Anger at things that happened long ago. Things that he hasn’t stopped being angry about, yes, but also things that he has locked down deep enough that they shouldn’t have interfered with a case. Not anymore. 

The feeling of inadequateness, something that plagued him during his first years as Robin, but also something that he should have pushed down deep enough that it shouldn’t bother him on the streets anymore. And then the grief, which he didn’t even want to think about. 

All of them aimed at Dick. 

Tim curses, and wills his fingers to move faster. 

***

The helmet is squeezing Dick’s head. They fitted him in a helmet and bound him inside a machine and Dick is… He is trying not to freak out. 

The helmet is squeezing Dick’s head. That’s the difference, between this time and the last time he was inside a machine. The helmet is squeezing Dick’s head, and everything in him hurts. 

That one is the same. 

Distantly, Dick hears the voice from the hallway say, “Interesting. Shall we proceed to the other one, then?”

The _other_ one. What do they mean by that? 

A burst of pain in his leg, somewhat similar to the dull, throbbing pain of a broken bone, answers his questions. Dick forces himself to breathe through it. It’s nothing he hasn’t felt before. _It’s nothing he hasn’t felt before_. Dick chants that inside his mind, trying to keep his focus away from the increasing pain. 

They’re getting more creative with that. 

“Hmm,” someone else hums. “What did you put for this one?”

“Oh, the same,” the person from earlier says. “Anger.”

Anger. They explained it to Dick, before they started. The more intense the emotion, the more pain Dick will feel. Something about exciting the nervous system, but by then the pain got to be too much for Dick to pay close attention to. 

He did pay enough attention to know that it had also been anger they used for the first round.

As they’re doing now. The pain changes and spreads, this time originating from the back of his neck and down towards his spine, filling every notch in his body. 

Anger. It’s one of his brothers’ anger towards him that causes this. They don’t tell Dick who it is, and Dick finds himself speculating. Is the burning in his arms because of Jason’s resentment for him? Is the sharp, nudging pain in his gut the remnants of Tim’s fury? 

He has done so many things that caused his brothers to be angry at him. It was… Even in the midst of blinding pain, Dick still can’t decide whether the pain is worse, because he knows it comes from one of his brothers being furious enough at Dick so that his anger could be used to fuel this, or that this kind of torture is better, because at least this pain is not caused by the whims of his captors. 

At least this pain is deserved.

How many times has he hurt his brothers? Not just physically, though he does that often, too. How many times has he forced his brothers to feel grief, anger, and insecurity? If the pain truly comes from their feelings for him, then this pain is more deserved than anything he has ever felt in his life. 

Dick gasps. His chest feels like it has just taken a few rounds, point-blank. And yet there is nothing to show for it. No danger of him dying, because they’re not really doing anything to him. Well, besides ‘exciting his nervous system’.

It’s amazing, really, their mechanisms. Giving as much pain as possible, without the risk of seriously injuring or killing their victim, and therefore allowing the session to go as long as they want it to? If they’re not using it to torture people, he would applaud the people who figured this out for their ingenuity.

But somehow, even in the midst of the excruciating pain, Dick’s mind still has enough presence to wonder, what caused this particular pain? Is it his time with Spyral? Is it his disbelief at Tim? Is it the time he threw Jason into Arkham?

It’s none of them, and all of them at once. It’s everything he has ever done that caused his brothers to be angry at him. He deserves this pain, and everything before that. 

Then, just as suddenly as it came, the pain stops. 

“Oh,” he hears someone say, “that is _very_ interesting. Same voltage, you say?”

“Yes, sir. Same everything.”

The first person hums. “Alright, proceed.”

“Yes, sir. Insecurity, going at 10 volts.”

And that is the last thing Dick hears before pain, something that feels like glowing-hot metal being driven into his shoulder blades, engulfs him. He tries to just lose himself to the pain, something he never would have done under normal circumstances, but this time, it would be easier to just let his mind wander. 

He doesn’t, because every single cell in his brain that is not occupied with pain is wondering, what is it that caused _this_ pain? Which insecurity did his brothers have that could be preyed upon to fuel _this_? 

How badly did Dick fail?

The pain is deserved, and Dick closes his eyes, surrendering himself to the agony. 

***

Jason is in the middle of a breathing exercise when he hears the door to his cell open _Shit_. He can’t stop the exercise now, not if he wants to keep his head clear off the tendrils of grief still threatening to take over his mind. But the door opening when there hasn’t been any indication that there is someone outside his cell is worrying. 

He pushes down his feelings of insecurity as far as he can, (how did he ever manage to convince himself that he didn’t care, that in the years he was Robin, he never managed to outdo Dick?), and opens his eyes. 

Only to be met by Red Robin’s expressionless face. Okay, it’s not a complete disaster, then. 

“Red?” Jason grits out, finding that the nagging feeling of inadequacy, of being so bad at being Robin that he died and someone else needs to take his place, that is always inside him whenever he looks at Tim, is growing quickly out of control. 

He closes his eyes again, and forces himself to resume the breathing exercises. _In and out_. He can do this. He has survived all of his episodes, all those times that his vision blurred and his mind escapes him. He can do it again.

“Hood,” Tim’s voice pierces his ears, “I need you to listen to me. The helmet you’re wearing is altering your emotions.”

“No shit,” Jason grinds out, and that small irritation grows until he is, once again, seeing himself in the Cave, looking up Dick’s scores on the training manuals. Jason never once managed to beat those scores. 

_Damn it_. Lock it down, Jason. This is not helping. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jason notices that Tim is staying far out of reach, which is a good thing, because if he touches Jason now, Jason might just deck him. 

“I’m going to take it off,” Tim says, voice even. “But it’s going to take some time. Can you stay calm while I’m doing it?”

No, but he’s going to have to do it. Jason knows the helmet is messing with him, he knows that whatever he’s feeling now is not real. No, that’s not right either. Whatever he’s feeling now _is_ real, but it isn’t something that he has the luxury of feeling in the middle of a case. What he’s feeling now should have been contained inside his safehouse, in the select nights the weight inside his chest is too unbearable to be ignored. What he’s feeling now should _stay_ inside those safehouses, who are silent witnesses to his tears. 

The witness shouldn’t be Tim. So, there is no question if he can let himself feel this, out here in the open, and there is no question if the helmet should stay _on_ if there is a chance for it to be off. 

“ _Get_ on with it,” Jason finally says. 

Tim, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch. He just nods, once, and gets to work. 

Jason tries to tune Tim out and focus on his breathing again, but it’s hard to do with Tim half on top of him. It’s even harder to do when he has to focus on _not_ hurting Tim. 

He knows how he gets, when he has an episode. He _knows_. And, despite everyone thinking otherwise, he doesn’t really want to hurt Tim anymore. So he forces his body still, but that takes every single drop of concentration that he has. 

The sound of metal against metal inside his head sounds like ticking. The feeling of Tim so near to him is blistering, like the heat from a bomb. 

Jason knew he was going to die in that warehouse in Ethiopia. He knew he was going to die, and he has grieved himself. 

He has grieved not being able to spend more time with Bruce. He has grieved not being able to have Alfred teach him his lasagna recipe. He has grieved all the things he would never get to do. 

He has grieved never being able to know Dick better. What had he got, with Dick? A few trips, here and there. A few missions with the Titans. Several bonding sessions, all with a clear deadline between them. He felt cheated then, and he didn’t even know what he was being cheated of.

When he got back from the dead, he saw Tim and Dick laughing together; saw Tim and Dick working like halfs to a whole; saw the recordings of Dick with Tim inside Titans Tower; and he knew then, what he had been cheated of. 

He didn’t know it then, too full of anger to grief, but he grieved that too. 

“Hood, _listen to me_ ,” Tim’s voice comes from somewhere in front of him. “I know it’s hard, but you have to _stay calm_ and let me work, okay?”

Jason opens his eyes to see Tim with his arms up, blocking a hit. He follows the line of the arm that Tim is blocking, and finds that it’s his own. 

A slow breath out. He can do this. There’s no way he’s going to let all those hours of training, both with Bruce and with Talia, go to waste. He nods, pulls his arms back, and locks them in. 

Tim looks at him for a second, before nodding and going back to work. “Just one more and we’re done,” Tim says. “Just… remember that it’s the helmet talking.”

Easy for him to say. He’s not wearing the damn thing. 

Jason feels irritation grow inside him, and pushes it down. He’s not going to let this happen again. 

Like Bruce, promising that he’s never going to let _it_ happen again. But Bruce didn’t keep that promise. Jason died, and then _Damian_ died, and then _Dick_ died, and… Gods, _all_ of them have died, haven’t they?

Even Dick, who seemed to be out of Jason’s league back then, with his team and his swaths of experience. Dick has died, and they all floundered in the midst of it. 

“There!” Tim cries out, and with that, the overwhelming grief that is threatening to swallow him is lifted. 

Jason takes a few breaths, revelling in the fact that his head is free and his mind is clear. Tim gives him the helmet, and Jason throws it away. “What the hell was that?” he demands. 

“I don’t know,” Tim says, “but…” He lowers his voice and asks, “Are all your, I don’t know, _thoughts_ , about Nightwing?”

Jason looks at him, denial on his lips, before he realizes that, yes, all of them _were_ about Dick. He curses, and Tim, taking that as the affirmation it is, grimaces. 

“I think he’s in trouble,” Tim breathes out, “and I think they’re using _us_ to put him in trouble.”

***

Dick tries to tell himself that it’s nothing. That the pain is nothing more than what he has felt before. He doesn’t quite succeed. 

It’s grief, this time. They’re forcing his brothers to feel the grief they experienced because of him and Dick can’t summon enough determination to be indignant about it. It is as it should be. He should feel the pain he made his brothers feel. 

He only wishes that his brothers didn’t have to relive the feelings. 

“Increase the voltage,” someone says. 

The searing pain on his thigh changes from what feels like a stabbing into what feels like a stabbing, with a burning and electrified knife. And his hands are bleeding. 

Wait, what? In the entire time he’s been here, with all the varieties of pain they’re making him feel, not a single drop of blood has been spilled. Dick has gone through what felt like gunshot wounds and broken bones, but not once did he spill blood. So if his hands are bleeding, it must come from somewhere else. 

His hands are bleeding, and it’s not from their torture. He must have clenched them so hard that his fingernails pierced the skin. It satisfies _something_ , a part of him that wants this experience to be etched into his body. But he also regrets drawing blood, because if this is payback for all he has made his brothers feel, then there shouldn’t be any blood. 

Blood doesn’t even cover a _fraction_ of what he has made his brothers feel, with his ineptitude and his ego and his fumbling attempts at being a big brother. All the pain he feels now should leave no mark on his skin but burn him from the inside, because that was what he did to his brothers. 

They can string him up like this for _weeks_ and it wouldn’t even come close to what he feels he deserves. 

“Again,” someone says. 

Dick prepares for another round of pain, but strangely, nothing comes. 

“ _Again_ ,” the voice calls out. 

Nothing. 

Dick gasps in a breath that, for once, is free of pain. It feels… wrong, somehow. There should be no respite in this. He knows that this isn’t penance, not really. This is just the workings of a sick mind, trying to torture someone with the emotions of others. 

But it _feels_ like a penance. It feels _right_ , to have the pain he let his brothers feel be etched into his own body. 

So, when the pain doesn’t come, he, perplexingly, feels disappointed. There should be more. Nothing that could be done to him is enough that it would completely absolve him from all the grief and anger and insecurity he has let his brothers experience. 

“What do you mean it’s not connected?” the same person calls out. 

“I… They must have taken off the helmet, sir,” a different voice answers. “There’s… there’s no brain activity detected.”

“And _no one_ noticed?”

Silence. Dick really should be using this time to try and get out of his restraints, to try and find his brothers, to get them _out_ of this situation he put them in, but his limbs are not cooperating. In addition to that, the warnings they gave him before they strapped him into this contraption is ringing inside his ears. 

_If you try to leave, we’ll put another one here_. 

That had made him shut up and let them tie him to the machine, no matter how much the sight turns his stomach. That also made him hesitate to try and get out. 

Because the helmet no longer being connected to one of his brothers doesn’t mean that they are safe. Not yet. And Dick is willing to endure anything to ensure that his brothers get out of this situation unharmed, including entering and _staying_ in a situation that he knew would trigger him. 

He has failed them too much, as evidenced by _everything_ they feel about him. If he hadn’t been such a _shitty_ brother, then none of this would have happened. The pain is just… The pain is a manifestation of their feelings, finally brought to light. 

And finally brought to their intended recipient. 

“What are you waiting around for?” the man says. “ _Find them!_ ”

“Too late, you cackling crackheads.”

Dick feels his head jerk up. Because that’s _Jason_ ’s voice. They’re here, and they’re fine. He hasn’t failed them again. 

Dick starts working on his bindings, but he can’t find purchase. His body feels like it’s just been through a beating, and every single part of him hurts.

He’s strapped to a machine, and every single part of him hurts. 

But he should be able to do this, because they’re not really hurting him, are they? They didn’t even lay a hand on him, and the only mark on him is something he did himself. 

He should be able to do this little, inconsequential thing. He should be able to get out of this damned machine without help. He should be able to go and help his little brothers. 

He can’t. His body isn’t following his commands. How could he ever think he could be a good brother? How could he ever think that he could protect his little brothers?

He can’t even do this. 

No wonder they hate him. 

They should just leave him here, paying penance to all the things he has done to them with every breath he takes. 

“Nightwing!” A hand brushes his cheek. “Are you alright?”

Dick opens his eyes and sees Tim. He didn’t even realize he’d closed them. His brother is already moving to take off his restraints, and Dick just… he just sits there, not helping. 

“Nightwing!” Tim says again. “Come on, answer me! Are you alright?”

Dick thinks about lying, but then, how many times has he lied to Tim? How many times has he said something that isn’t true?

How many times has that hurt Tim?

“I… I’ve been better,” Dick finally settles on. 

Tim looks up at him, mouth slack. With astonishment? Or with disbelief that Dick let himself get so low that he didn’t even try?

A crash in the background, a reminder that they’re in the middle of a fight, seems to get Tim to start moving again. Dick tries to help, he really does, but then his mind conjures up the last time he was tied up in a machine almost like this one, and what had come from it. 

Didn’t they say grief? Dick was grieving Damian so much back then, that he forgot that others would grieve him too. He had let them strap him into a machine just like this one, and he had let Luthor force a pill down his throat. 

Dick knows that Tim is not Luthor, that Tim wouldn’t force a pill into his mouth to save his own skin, but Dick still waits for a pill he cannot be sure won’t come. 

“Nightwing!” a frantic whisper into his ears. “Nightwing, come on!”

Dick feels his shoulders being shaken and pulls himself out of whatever memory threatens to overwhelm him. He’s in Gotham, inside a warehouse with two of his little brothers. They need to _get out_ , as fast as possible. 

When he’s finally got enough grip on his own mind, Dick’s eyes focus on the white lenses of Tim’s mask. “Yeah?” Tim breathes out, and Dick tries to let himself believe that it’s from relief. “You with me, N?”

“Yeah,” Dick croacks out. 

Tim nods, once, and positions himself under Dick’s arms. With one smooth motion, he stands up, bringing Dick with him. 

God, when did Tim get big? 

“Hood!” Tim calls out. “We need to go!” When there’s no response from the other side of the room, Tim yells again. “Now!”

Another crash, before Jason’s voice finally comes. “Alright, alright!” And then, the man himself appears in Dick’s vision. “Jeez, Red, way to dox a guy.”

Dick can’t see what Tim’s response is, but it shuts Jason up quickly. He’s lost his hood, Dick notices, and if he was startled with how big Tim got, he’s even more stunned by seeing how _young_ Jason looks. 

Of course, Jason looks young. He’s Dick’s little brother. 

Jason sighs, and then, shockingly, puts himself underneath Dick’s other arm. He has to bend down to do that, because both Dick and Tim are shorter than him. Dick swallows a laugh. Young he might look, but Jason got taller in the time he was gone. 

A pang of grief hits him. He never got to see Jason grow up, and...for the first time in _years_ , Dick realizes that even if Jason hadn’t died, he might not have seen Jason grow up either. Not properly. Not in the way a big brother should be able to. 

He feels another pang of grief hit him, a combination of all the things that could be and the things that never were. 

The damned helmet must also have done something to _his_ emotions.

Dick shakes his head, trying to clear it. It doesn’t matter, now. What matters is getting out of here as soon as they possibly can, and then maybe, if they’re lucky, shutting down this organization. Whoever is behind this is obviously very smart, evident not only by their innovations in torture techniques, but also by their ability to fool almost all the vigilantes of Gotham. 

The three of them make their way through the hallways they entered through, stumbling over unconscious bodies. 

“Did you do all of this?” Dick asks. 

“Yeah, yeah, keep your scolding for later, Nightwing. I promise none of them are dead,” Jason answers. 

Dick frowns. That’s not what he wanted to say. What he wanted to say is…

Anger. There’s anger hidden underneath Jason’s words. Now that Dick thinks of it, there’s anger coloring most of Jason’s interactions with him. Why didn’t Dick notice until now?

“Leave him be, Hood,” Tim says. 

That’s… grief, in Tim’s voice. Hidden underneath layers and layers of misdirection. 

How did Dick miss it?

“You…” Dick starts, only to be cut off by stumbling on a stray foot. Once he has gotten his own feet beneath him, Dick tries again. “Did they tell you, what happened?”

Silence. From where he stands, Dick can’t see his brothers, but he can feel the tension growing in them. They stop walking, and Dick just _knows_ that the two of them are communicating silently over his head. 

“No,” Tim finally says, and they walk on again. “They didn’t.”

Dick lets out a sigh of relief. That’s good. They shouldn’t know. It’s not their fault that Dick is such a horrible brother that he has garnered enough anger and grief from his brothers that it can be used to power that cursed machine. If they know, they’re going to feel guilty, and this is really, _truly_ not their fault. Dick might be discovering a lot of new things about his brothers tonight, but this much he knows. They’re going to blame themselves, and his well-being isn’t really something he wants his brothers to burden themselves with. 

He’s the older brother. He’s the one that’s supposed to take care of them. 

Let this be yet another thing Dick keeps to himself. What’s one more secret, right?

“But we have some guesses,” Tim continues. 

Dick’s stomach drops. Of course he’s not getting off that easy. 

“Red,” Dick starts, but Jason cuts him off. 

“Shut up, ‘Wing. We’re going to get out of here, and we’re going to sike the GCPD on these guys, though god knows that they’re probably gonna be gone by then, and then we’re going somewhere I can take this damned mask off and put some ice on the shoulder I busted because I was busy keeping a guy from shooting the two of you, and _then_ we’re going to talk. Got it?”

Dick waits for the protest he’s sure will come from Tim, but nothing. Not even a disgruntled ‘Hey!’. Dick sighs again, not in relief this time, and nods. 

The night isn’t over yet. 

***

“So,” Jason says, and, true to his word, he has his mask off and his shoulders iced before he says a word, “what’s all that about?”

Dick, who also has his own mask off and has changed into civvies, fiddles with the glass of water in his hand. “I… I wasn’t lying,” he says, desperate for them to know that, and yet at the same time devastated by the fact that he even has to say it at all. “I really didn’t know what was going on, when we came in. But…”

“But?” Jason prods. 

“They really didn’t tell you anything?”

“No. But I’m guessing they told _you_.”

“I…” No point denying it now, Grayson. “Yeah.”

“And?” Jason prods again when Dick doesn’t speak up. 

“They…,” Dick closes his eyes. “The helmets were some kind of brain wave stimulator, I think? And then yours were connected to mine, which…”

“Which excited _your_ pain receptors,” Tim fills in. 

“Yeah.”

Silence, again. Dick doesn’t know _what_ was going on in his brothers’ mind, back in that warehouse. He only knows what he was told. Anger, insecurity, and grief. One after the other. He can guess though, which one of his actions caused which emotions. But he really, _really_ doesn’t want to. 

He’s going to have to do it, anyway, doesn’t he?

Which is why it’s a surprise, when Tim opens his mouth and says, “I’m sorry.” 

Dick looks up at him. He, like the rest of them, is also already in civvies, with one of his hands bandaged and iced, which highlights even more how _young_ he is. How young all of them are. 

“I…, Tim, it’s….” Dick swallows, and finally decides on, “It’s not your fault.”

“It kind of is, though,” Tim replies. “They’re using _my_ emotions against you. It’s… I shouldn’t have…” he trails off. 

Dick puts down the glass and crouches in front of Tim. He lifts up his hand, the wound on it already closing up, and puts it on Tim’s cheek. “It’s not your fault, Tim.”

“ _Some_ of it is,” Tim insists. “I… I thought I’ve laid all those feelings to rest. But it turns out I’m just pushing it down, and… and that…” Tim takes a sharp breath in, before saying, “They used it to _hurt_ you, Dick, and that’s not okay.”

Dick gives him a small smile. “It’s alright, I deserved it.”

“Like hell you do,” Jason retorts. “They have no business taking emotions and using it to _torture_ someone.”

“I…” Dick starts, but then he realizes that he has nothing to say to that, and simply lifts his shoulders in a shrug. 

“Dick,” Jason says slowly, “listen to me. All of that…,” he pauses, before finally breathing out, “you don’t deserve that.”

“I made you feel all those things, though,” Dick counters. “They told me. Anger, insecurity, and grief. All because of me.” 

“I’m not saying you’re not an asshole for making us feel that,” Jason says. “But those emotions? They’re not meant to be torture devices, Dick. They’re just… emotions. _Our_ emotions. Not yours.”

“I…”

“He’s right,” Tim chimes in. “I… I can’t say that you’re justified in making us feel all those things, and I _definitely_ don’t want to be feeling _that_ again, but those are _our_ feelings, and however much of a hand you had in making us feel that, it’s…” Tim meets his eyes, and says, “You can’t take that away from us, no matter how much you want to, Dick. And _especially_ not by making yourself go through pain and torture for it.”

Dick feels something inside him breaks. He lets out a small huff of breath and shakes his head. “I thought _I’m_ supposed to be the one that’s good with emotions?” 

“No one ever said that, you asshole,” Jason says. “They just see your smiles and think that you have a handle on your mental health.”

Another huff of breath, this time coming from Tim. “Yeah, he’s kinda right, Dick. You’re just as bad as we are. _Worse_ , even.”

Dick finally lets himself laugh, and pulls his little brothers in a hug. He hears Jason’s grumble and Tim’s shriek of indignation, but none of them actually pull away from the hug.

He presses a kiss on their foreheads, and smiles, properly this time, when neither of them protests. “Well then, it’s good that I have you guys to put me straight,” Dick says. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to the lovely [ Aurora ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/pseuds/AuroraKant) for putting up with my frantic yelling and atrocious grammar. I love you so much.


End file.
